


A Knight's Tale

by gotfanfiction



Series: Twitter nonsense [16]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Alternate Universe, Geralt is a retired knight, Jaskier is just starting out, M/M, Magic Geralt, Older Man/Younger Man, Wildly AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-17
Updated: 2020-12-17
Packaged: 2021-03-11 00:41:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28136370
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gotfanfiction/pseuds/gotfanfiction
Summary: Maybe if he thought it hard enough, at some point, it would become true.
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Series: Twitter nonsense [16]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2024782
Comments: 14
Kudos: 135





	A Knight's Tale

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sillypeppers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sillypeppers/gifts).



> Hey hey, here with another AU for you guys ;>

*--* 

His spine is bent, hands gnarled, but he's still strong enough to till his own field, and he does. He  _ is _ old, however, and the seeds will have to wait until tomorrow. He keeps working even when the wards alert him to a stranger approaching.

They'd have kept whoever it was out entirely if they had even a hint of malicious intent, but he hasn't lived as long as he has by being stupid, and his sword hangs heavy at his hip. A young man wrapped in a bard's bright clothing is mincing his way through the mud, and Geralt sighs. The last he needs right now, or ever, is some young man who's never so much as held a blade in his life begging him for advice before going off an adventure and getting himself killed by the first bandit he comes across. There hasn't been one in years, not since he put down his armor and picked up a spade. 

Everyone who knew him here knew him as an old soldier who kept to himself, who grew the best vegetables, who had the best fruit trees. Magic, worked through his mangled hands, into the earth he tilled. 

Intent was important. 

"Hello!" The young man called out to him from just outside the field. It was probably a good sign that he wasn't rude enough to go stomping on Geralt's work, but he would have preferred if he just hadn't come at all. 

"Are you Geralt of Rivia? Famed knight? Dual swords, magic, etc?" His voice reached Geralt with ease, projecting without shouting, another notch in the bard column. He didn't want any singing anywhere near him, damn it.

Geralt leaned on his hoe, shouted, "Who the fuck is asking? I'm busy, brat, go away." 

The grin being sent his way just got bigger. "I'm Jaskier, traveling bard of, uh, not currently much renown, but! I've heard of you, well, everyone has, and I thought, what better way to kick off what I'm  _ sure _ will be an illustrious career than a few ballads written about someone as well known as you, but sourced  _ from _ you, directly? With the occasional poetic liberty taken, of course."

Geralt could spot stubborn from leagues away, and this fresh faced bard of 'not currently much renown' had it in spades, mud splattered up past his knees, bright outfit worn from days of foot travel, hair glossy and thick, but greasy, as well. 

Geralt could also spot a noble born from leagues away, generally by the way they were plump and healthy and not at all used to the grueling labor of farm work, or even days of walking in boots meant for court. He probably had blisters atop his blisters, fool. 

"Brat." The young man perked up, eyes bright. "Come back tomorrow. I'll think about speaking to you, then." 

Jaskier huffed, just a bit, under his breath, but Geralt had good ears, and heard it anyways. "Well, alright, Sir Geralt, I'll be on my way, but I promise to be back first thing in the morning!"

_ Sir Geralt, _ that wasn't something he'd been called in years, and he hadn't missed it. He turned away, went back to his work, and the bard shuffled his feet for a moment before he walked off, humming quietly.

Geralt found himself wishing, whisper quiet, that the young man would actually return. If only so he would have something pretty to look at while he worked, not because he was lonely and old. 

Maybe if he thought it hard enough, at some point, it would become true.

*--* 

The wards flared up before the sun had even risen, Geralt being roused from his sleep by the jolt and irritable with it. He was old, and he had the cracking joints to prove it; he didn't deserve to be awoken at the ass crack of dawn. 

_ At least he keeps his promises, _ Geralt mused, scraping his hair out of his face. First thing in the morning, the little bastard. He didn't really expect the knock at his door. Knocks. Repeated. Gods, he was a persistent pest, and Geralt got dressed just enough to be decent before he flung open the door with a growl. 

"Brat. What the fuck are you doing?" 

Jaskier blinked at him, innocent as a babe,  _ cretin, _ smiled. "It's morning, isn't it? I've come for my stories." 

"Unless you've also come to help me with my chores you should fuck off," Geralt pushed past him, headed to the well. "I don't have time to sit around, reminiscing." A hand snatched the bucket up and tossed it down, and Geralt nearly laughed in his face when Jaskier offered his assistance. 

"Why are you so concerned with getting the truth?" Geralt watched the bard struggle with the rope, reluctantly amused. "Isn't your lot supposed to be  _ good _ at making up stories?"

Water successfully retrieved, even if a great deal was slopped out over his boots, Jaskier grinned, again, said, "The best stories have at least a kernel of truth in them. I want to write music that  _ feels _ real. I can spin a yarn as well as any other bard, and it might be pretty, or popular, but it wouldn't be real."

"What about your poetic license?"

"Oh, that's just to polish everything up. Make it a little more appealing, you know?" 

They were back at the door to his small cabin, now, and Jaskier's lips did a funny little twist when his stomach growled loud enough to be heard. "Could I trouble you for some breakfast? I'm not much of a hunter, and I slept in the woods so that I could be as early as possible." 

Of  _ course _ he slept in the woods, but didn't bother bringing enough food with him, or wear the right kind of boots, or consider that waking an old man who used to be famed for his swordplay before sunrise was a good way to get skewered. 

Geralt sighed, again, and jerked his head towards the fireplace. "Get the water boiling in that pot. We'll eat, then you'll help me sow the seeds for the season." 

The bard didn't look at all fazed by the prospect of hard labor. He just fumbled his way into the house, cheerful as anything. 

*--*

Geralt had to admit, a bit of help, even if said help had to be walked through the process the first few times, was nice. Everything was finished in time for a quick supper, jerky and bread he'd baked a few days ago, almost but not quite stale. Tea to wash everything down, and now the bard was staring at him, wide eyed and eager. Geralt considered, briefly, softening the edges of his story, of not lying, but keeping the worst of the horror veiled over. 

But the truth is what the young man wanted.

And the truth is what he got.

*--* 

Geralt was having trouble sleeping. Every five minutes Jaskier would turn over and sigh, as if this time the floor would suddenly acquire a bit of give, for easier resting. Curse his damn sharp ears, again, and the young thing making too much noise too late at night. 

"Get up here."

A thunk. 

"Oh, um, are you sure?" Jaskier was already on the bed, even as he asked. "Don't want to put you out." 

"The bed is big enough for two, and I can't sleep with you making so much noise," Geralt lifted the blankets. "Just get in and  _ be quiet." _

"I'll be so quiet. Won't hear me so much as breathe, I swear."

Geralt doubted that, very much. Jaskier seemed like the sort of person who was always making some sort of noise, always humming or tip tapping his toes. Hopefully he'd be quieter in sleep. The bard snuggled right up into his side, unrepentant in his theft of body heat, but Geralt was just tired enough not to give a shit. 

His eyes finally slid shut, and they stayed that way til morning.

*--*

Oh, this was not good. 

*--*

Geralt didn't have company over ever, if at all, and certainly was no longer used to waking to a half-dressed young thing in his bed, breathing into his neck and mindlessly grinding on his hip. 

He had never been good at these kinds of things, and whatever skills he used to have had withered away from age and isolation both. Any attempts to slither out of the grip the bard had on him ended with him trapped all the tighter, and so Geralt simply went with the direct route that had served him well enough most of his life: he shook the other awake. 

"Go take that somewhere else, brat." 

Jaskier blinked and rubbed the sleep from his eyes, which would have been adorable if he also hadn't been cursing. "Take what  _ where?" _

Geralt just raised an eyebrow. "Did your parents not have that talk with you?" 

"Wha- oh. Oh! Well." Again, he was unrepentant, a curly sort of smile twisting it's way across his face. "You could give me a hand, you know. Help a poor man out. We could help each other, in fact." 

What. Geralt stared at him, shocked. He was...he was too old for this shit. He was too old to be getting offers from young men who were still a few years away from growing all the way into their limbs. He opened his mouth to say so but was kissed before he could get any words out. 

"You spent your life saving people, doing good." Jaskier breathed his own words out like a prayer, quiet and heartfelt. "I read all about you, in libraries where they hated you, and in ones where they loved you. I spoke to people about you, ordinary folk, and, oh, you have inspired so many to be better than they think they can be." 

Geralt was being straddled, his hands gripping tightly at slim hips. Jaskier was kissing him every other word, wet and almost desperate. "I fell in love with a young man who chose to be a hero, even at the cost of everything, and I came here and you were exactly as perfect as I thought you would be." 

Geralt was feeling a little helpless, couldn't have stopped himself from kissing back if he tried, running his rough hands over leagues of soft skin. 

"I don't-" he tore his mouth away, turned his head. "I don't have anything. For this." 

Jaskier grinned, teeth white and sharp. "Oh, there's still so many things we could do. Like this." He reached into the soft trousers Geralt had worn to sleep in, hand hot and smooth and pulling him out, writhing around until he was happily settled, trousers and smalls tossed carelessly on the floor. 

He couldn't quite manage to get his hand wrapped around the both of them, so Geralt added his, fingers tangled together, pleasure sparking in his gut. One breathless giggle and wrist adjustment later and they hit a rhythm that dragged hot nails down his spine. It was almost a surprise, Jaskier gasping and coming all over Geralt’s cock, face twisted up. Youth had its drawbacks. Geralt kept going, Jaskier whimpering into his mouth, oversensitive but still hard, chasing his orgasm. 

Hands clawed at his shoulders, one sticky with come, and Geralt pulled away from kissing to suck awful little marks into a pale neck, mean about it, really, but all Jaskier did was moan and push into it. He really was too old for the kind of orgasm he had, heart pounding away at double time, teeth clamping down. 

He shuddered his way to the end, kissing at the bite in apology, and when he finally caught his breath he pushed Jaskier onto his back and did his best to suck the brat's soul out of his prick, a spit slicked finger wrestled inside to press on his prostate. 

*--* 

Jaskier was still sleeping an hour later, Geralt was up, washed, dressed and ready to get to his chores, however late. He took a moment to admire the sight of a splayed out, beautiful young man on his worn blankets and sagging mattress, and sighed. 

He shouldn't have done this. 

*--*

Geralt spent as much time outside as he could, and he needed to, alright, his farm wouldn't take care of itself, now would it? Pretty visitors who wriggled their way into his pants after listening to some of the worst of his stories could wait. Gods, his fucking back  _ hurt, _ twinging in complaint from too much work and too much, well, fucking. 

He never expected to get old enough to regret it. The drills he made sure he did twice a week got more and more difficult, and he knit most evenings to keep his fingers nimble but still. Still. 

When he finally stomped in Jaskier was hunched over a journal, scribbling away, and a pot was bubbling over in the hearth, fat dribbles of what looked like a simple stew dripping into the fire, sizzling into char and smoke. The bard was apparently oblivious, still working even when Geralt loudly swore as he attempted to save the food and cookware. 

"Did you have a productive day, dear?" Jaskier finally looked up from his writing, bemusedly watching Geralt carefully excavate the over cooked food from the burnt food. "I started supper. You're welcome." 

"You're never allowed to cook in my home again." Geralt was sure he could save the pot, provided he could scrub everything out, and the rest of it seemed edible enough. 

"I'll leave the domestics to you, darling, don't worry." 

"No." He whirled around, anger that had been simmering under his skin all day boiling over, scorching him just as badly as his abused pot. "No dears, no darlings. You think you know me from, what, books and stories and two days of talking to me? You think there'll be a happy ending here? I'm an old man, and you're just starting out. I'm done with adventures, and rescuing, and battles and fighting. I'm done dealing with brats like you, who don't actually know how the world works. Go write your songs and live your life, and leave me to what's left of mine." 

Jaskier scowled. "It's not as if you're going to drop dead in a week! Happy endings are over done. I'd rather have an interesting one, instead."

Geralt barked out a laugh. "Nothing interesting about farm work, brat. Old wounds playing up in storms get old, fast. I'm getting slower every day, and sooner, rather than later, I'll be dead and in the ground. Planning on spending the rest of your life  _ withering away, _ mourning for your lover, old enough to be your damn grandfather? That's ridiculous;  _ you're _ ridiculous." 

Jaskier stared down at his journal, at his smooth hands, lip wobbling, breaking his frown into something sadder. "If I said no, would you let me stay?" 

Geralt’s hands were clenched into fists at his side, and he hadn't even realized he was doing it, and he couldn't stop doing it. "No. If you said yes I'd still send you on your way. Go find your interesting ending with someone who isn't within spitting distance of becoming history." 

The brat was quiet as he gathered his few things, straightened his clothes into almost respectability. He kept his eyes down the whole time, and Geralt felt that like a blow to the chest, but this was for the best. It was.

"Thank you, Geralt, for sharing a part of yourself with me," Jaskier looked up at last, and that stubbornness was in his eyes, clear as day, but Geralt somehow didn't expect one last, lingering kiss, or hands cupped around his face like he was something precious, and not just a crotchety old bastard who turned away sex with gorgeous young men for the right reasons. "I'll be back. Do you understand?" 

Geralt swallowed, heavy and dry. "Would be better if you didn't come back, brat." 

"I don't care. You know, I don't think I've ever seen eyes like yours, before. I'll have to return to make sure I don't forget them." 

He left after that, and Geralt ate the sad attempt at a meal alone, cleaned up as much as he could, and tried not to feel regret. He spent a few long moments eying the chest where he kept most of his old gear before giving up and dragging everything out, checking for tears out of habit more than need. It would never fit, made for a younger man, muscled from constant fighting and swordplay. 

He didn't bother putting it away before he slipped into bed, his blankets smelling like another person. He fell into sleep, wishing for something impossible, heart sore and tired with it.

*--* 

Waking was strange; he felt oddly refreshed, body thrumming with energy, his joints quiet for once, back relaxed and not twisted into ten thousand knots. Geralt immediately went rigid, suspicious. He knew his body, knew the marks a hard life had left on it. 

He took a bracing breath, keeping his eyes shut, and again, no twinges, nothing stretching in an uncomfortable manner. Just him, well-rested, fully warm for once, breathing easy. He tossed his blankets aside, swung his legs over the side of his bed, and stood. Geralt could taste it, almost, magic hanging heavy in the air, swirling like dust, visible even with his eyes closed, dancing around him in a playful sort of way. 

A thrilling, trilling song, skittering around the edges of his senses, joyful, and he relented, opened his eyes, and was both shocked and utterly unsurprised at the hands he hadn't seen in decades, skin supple, clear of wrinkles and spots, strong again. 

Geralt ran said hands through his hair, thick and curled once more, and spent a dazed few minutes simply looking at and feeling himself. He looked at the armor and weapons on his floor, thought,  _ he can't walk very fast in those stupid boots, _ and shivered when the magic whipped around him, screaming like the laughter of children. 

*--*

Jaskier had actually gotten further away than he had thought, but Geralt had had to settle his affairs, as it were, farm and land in the care of a widow with more than enough children to help her mind it, the magic he'd spent years nurturing sure to bring her money and comfort both. 

It was nearing dusk when he arrived to a decent attempt at a camp, fire small and sputtering in the wind but that it was present at all was a good sign that, however young and inexperienced he was, Jaskier was not entirely incapable of taking care of himself. 

And of course the brat had lied about not having supplies, paltry as they were. The brat was staring at him, mouth gaping open, and it should have been unattractive, or at least funny, but was alarmingly endearing instead. 

"One last trick up my sleeve, I suppose," Geralt dismounted, loosely tying his lovely new Roach to a tree, and knelt before Jaskier, who had begun grinning in delight, and leaning forward as if Geralt was telling him a secret. 

"Let's get started on that  _ interesting _ ending of yours." 

*--* 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to @silvipeppers for prodding me until I finished this <333


End file.
